


Led by the Light

by prettylights_archivist



Category: Stargate Atlantis RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-25
Updated: 2006-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettylights_archivist/pseuds/prettylights_archivist
Summary: by puppetsock"This," Joe says, "is the most stupid idea you ever had."





	Led by the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Amireal and Dirty Diana for speedy yet splendid last-minute beta. Merry Christmas!
> 
> Note from diana, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Pretty Lights](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretty_lights), which closed for financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Pretty Lights collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/prettylights/profile).

"This," Joe says, "is the most stupid idea you ever had --"   
  
" _And it's up against some pretty stiff competition_ , I know, I know." David is grinning, giving him a long look: Flanigan, I've Heard It All. It would be less unsettling if he weren't also driving the car, though.   
  
Joe drags his eyes away from the too-gleeful curve of David's mouth. He stares out the window instead, at a million colorful lights, some of them about Christmas, most of them omnipresent L.A. illumination.   
  
Signing the contract for a TV star charity dinner four days before Christmas was, in retrospect, pure madness. He supposes he'd thought it nothing but a brief stint, heading over after lunch with the family and being back to kiss his wife good-night. He hadn't considered Katherine taking an early plane to see her family on the East Coast, taking the boys with her. No one's waiting for him at home now.   
  
What had bugged Joe when she told him about her Christmas plans doesn't seem half-bad now. The dinner was fun, the two of them bit-players, genre actors against the likes of Wentworth Miller or Alexis Bledel, and Joe actually thought that was fine. He's had David to keep him company until his own flight is due, although David would undoubtedly argue it's the other way around. Joe looks straight ahead and tells him, "C'mon. Cruising through L.A. in search of the Christmas spirit...."   
  
"Christmas  _lights_ , Joe."   
  
"...in search of the Christmas spirit is like looking for porn in a Southern Baptist household: just not the right place for it."   
  
David's answer is a snort. "Oh, please. Even one glimpse at those people's closets would make me blush."   
  
Not touching the topic of Southern Baptists with a ten-inch pole. "Oh?" Joe says instead, adding a good dose of incredulity, "the mighty Hewlett, he blushes?"   
  
David laughs. "You have no idea. I'm a man of mystery -- hey, look at that!"   
  
_That_  is a house on a small hill, one decked not in multi-colored blinking atrocities but rows of tiny lights woven around the roof and following the silhouette of a pine tree, their shine steady and soothing after the glare of the city, or one of the cities that make up L.A. They've driven quite a while, Joe notes, into another residential area, one with wide and wider spaces between houses. Trees, winding lanes of paved stone. Definitely not a poor part of town.   
  
David is slowing down, barely keeps the car rolling. He's staring at the house, at the other homes in the neighborhood, decorated as sparsely. "Told you we'd find real Christmas lights."   
  
"The way you loved them when you were a child in the white wilderness of Canada, yeah."   
  
David isn't looking at the houses any more, but neither is he focusing on the road. There's a faraway expression in his eyes, and he doesn't tell Joe with a good-natured eyeroll that Ottawa is hardly wilderness and that someone who grew up on a farm near Reno shouldn't throw stones. David's done things like that before, and he'll probably do them again.   
  
No, David just smiles. "We did have snow. A lot of it." He blinks, turns his head toward Joe again before, thank God, actually glancing across the dashboard again. "Ottawa has over 230 centimeters -- 92 inches -- of snowfall per year."   
  
"Really?" Joe's honestly surprised. After the million things he's learned from David were untrue or at least gross stereotypes about Canada, he wouldn't have batted an eyelash had David told him, with a straight face, that there was virtually no snow in Canada's major cities: that only idiots and Americans believed that.   
  
"Yup. Second coldest temperature ever recorded in a capital city, after Ulan Baatar in Mongolia."   
  
"Cool."   
  
"Literally." A smirk. "I remember my mother fussing and putting a wool cap on my head every morning for nine months out of twelve."   
  
Okay, so Joe knows that smirk and doesn't move a muscle in his face. "Of course." He nods. "Right before you went to school without shoes on, uphill both ways, with only a cold potato for lunch in your threadbare pocket."   
  
David laughs. "You know me so well, Joe. It's heart-warming." There's a glint in his eyes that makes Joe grin, too.   
  
"I don't know about that, but I'm all for belly-warming." Joe hesitates, but what the hell? He waggles an eyebrow at David, because that never fails to make David grin his Flanigan, You Great Big Dork grin. "If you want to keep riding down memory lane -- hot punch? Mulled wine?"   
  
"Long as it's got alcohol and is served in a bar, it sounds good to me."   
  
Joe thinks for a moment. "There's a place not far from where I live, trying to be an English pub. I've always wanted to try the ale there."   
  
"Good idea, tasty concept: You got me, let's go."   
  
Joe can't help but smile at that, and begins to give David directions.   
  
  
***   
  
  
The pub-slash-bar serves them well.   
  
Joe's relieved it's not going along with the general L.A. theme of Bigger, Better, More Garish For The Holidays. When he tells David that, David shakes his head, full of worldly wisdom. In an deadpan unusual for his animated self, he says these last three words were entirely superfluous. Joe responds that, speaking of three, David should be careful with his allotted quota of three-syllable words there, but really, it's a token protest. He likes L.A. because he loves the weather and needs the industry, or at least that's what he used to think. But he's not married to it, certainly not these days spent in a Canadian city that boasts business but little in the way of good weather.   
  
They have beer, because David's nostalgia doesn't quite extend to spiced alcoholic drinks, for which Joe feels grateful. They have had more than one beer. Joe doesn't check his watch once, and David's face, flushed from alcohol and not a few laughs, doesn't exactly signal the desire to leave.   
  
After midnight, Joe still doesn't want to, but the landlord's been throwing them more and more glances at odds with the merry season, and they are the last patrons.   
  
Since the front door's already locked when they stand up -- not too jauntily, either -- they are being sent out the back door with a curt, "Parking lot to your left, around the corner" before the door is closed.   
  
"Joe, check it out," David says, pointing a finger upward, and it's back, the wicked glint in his eyes.   
  
Joe rolls his eyes, but since Made You Look jeers are below David's level, barely, he does look up. At a twig of mistletoe someone less of a Grinch than the landlord must've hung up.   
  
Maybe Joe's the one with the elf ears, but it's definitely David who's got the naughty down pat. David leans forward, close enough to Joe's ear to make him jump, and maybe shiver a little at the unsuspected gust of warm breath. "Hey Flanigan, how about keeping with the theme of tradition?"   
  
Always upping the ante; it takes Joe the fraction of a second too long to answer. "Hewlett," Joe drawls, letting more than a touch of Sheppard seep into his voice, "you didn't want any mulled wine, either," which is lame, yes, but his mind's gone oddly fuzzy, not only due to alcohol.   
  
David's standing very close, eyes bluer than blue, and have his lashes always been this long? Joe doesn't, absolutely doesn't, tremble when David's right hand curls around his elbow, gentle but devastating, when his left hand settles lightly on Joe's hip.   
  
Joe doesn't flinch; he leans in just a little instead when David tilts his head and brushes his lips across Joe's. It's not a forward kiss, but it's definitely a kiss, and Joe's heart is beating wildly in his chest because you don't kiss co-workers, you don't kiss guys -- except when you do -- and you most definitely don't kiss people not your spouse.   
  
But maybe  _he_  does. Tonight.   
  
David's mouth is warm, his lips soft against the 3 a.m. stubble, and Joe find himself relaxing into it, welcoming what's clearly an offer and not the world's most competitive game of Gay Chicken. It's been a while since Joe kissed a guy, but it's not like mechanics are any different. The sensation isn't, blood rushing through his veins, a feeling of lightness, as if he could be pushed over with a feather. David can be pushy, but it'd be too easy to blame it on him: It's Joe who opens his mouth and lets his tongue tangle with David's, hot and wet and tearing a moan from David, and it's Joe who touches his hand to the back on David's neck, strokes the soft hair he finds there, drawing more low, happy noises from David.   
  
Joe knows -- and appreciates -- a fair share of well-loved customs, say, Superbowl weekend, but mistletoe was never on top of the list. Until now. When they both have to catch their breaths, he draws back a little, stares at David, who stares back. "What do you say," Joe says, notes how hoarse his voice is, "we get out of here, and --" he breaks off and looks to the ground for a moment because the intensity of David's gaze is hard to bear, "you can stay at my place." The urge to add something about hotels and saving travel expenses is great, but who is he kidding? If they go to his place, it won't be because of costs or even convenience.   
  
David swallows, and there's a question in his face that's not about Joe. But he doesn't ask it, says, "Okay."   
  
  
***   
  
  
His house is dark. They don't flick the light switches, which results in David bumping into the low couch and almost toppling over. There aren't any candles, except for the holiday decoration that -- the holiday decoration period. No mistletoe, but they don't need that any more. They're kissing again as soon as they've stepped inside, hungrily, eager and a little clumsy in a way that makes Joe shudder with lust. David's hands are broad and hot in the small of his back, snuck in under the hem of his black sweater, so it's okay for Joe to reach around and take a handful of David's ass, fitting perfectly into his palm. David barks out a breathless laugh against Joe's lips, and there's something giddy-sweet in his expression that makes Joe's heart clench: as if David never expected this to happen. As if this is the best gift he could have hoped for.   
  
"Guestroom," Joe manages to say, to steer David in the right direction. His right hand has left David's ass, a little regretfully, is fumbling with the buttons on David's horrible striped shirt, which he needs to lose, anyway. David's kissing his neck, open-mouthed, with just a hint of teeth, his hands not idle but still the devil's playground, sliding down, stroking over the front of Joe's pants and his hard cock, making him gasp.   
  
But here, David hesitates, pulls back a bit. "Joe, have you done this before?"   
  
"Once." Joe nods, punctuates this with a light nip at David's lower lip to shut him up, but then, David's always been bad at heeding  _Stop Talking_  commands.   
  
"Only once?" Now there's something almost like concern in David's eyes. "Didn't like it?"   
  
"Didn't like the guy that much," Joe clarifies, and it's nothing but the truth: Fucking a guy had been a successful experiment, but it hadn't been about romance. Just seeing -- feeling for himself, for a role, even though he now knows method isn't his style.   
  
David looks at him. He must've heard the implication -- what Joe thinks but doesn't say -- because he says, "right," and the smile he gives Joe is warm and a little awed. Unlike his fingers, returning to trace the outline of Joe's erection, pop the button. Joe's hips are jerking forward before David has the zipper all the way down, and he can't quite keep in the sound he makes.   
  
"Sit," David whispers, and Joe just nods, dropping back onto the guest bed, fighting for balance exactly as long as it takes David to divest him of his pants, and the boxers along with it. Chilly air hits his naked skin, but what makes Joe shiver is the way David goes to his knees, strokes his hands down Joe's legs on the outside and circles his ankles before stroking back up; in doing so, he's pushing them apart, gently but with certainty, and just the hint of pressure, of strength is hotter than anything, makes Joe's hard cock twitch. David levels a last glance, one crooked little smile at him before bending forward and taking the wet tip into his mouth, and Jesus,  _David's tongue_  -- Joe gasps for air, riding out the sensation, his hands coming to rest on David's shoulder, the crown of David's head. David starts rolling Joe's balls between his fingers and sliding over the soft skin behind. It's incredibly good, David is, sucking and stroking, and Joe shivers again. When David goes even further, teases lightly across his asshole, it's like a shockwave through his sytem, and Joe moans. "David, hey, wait --"   
  
The fingers withdraw, and Joe's cock slips from David's mouth. Before David has finished licking his lips, already looking down with a studied expression of careless ease, Joe digs his hands into David's shoulder, making him look up. "No, it's not -- I want you to fuck me."   
  
"What?" Very few people, Joe suspects, have seen this expression on David's face: surprise and slack-jawed amazement that really shouldn't look so good on him, or anyone. "You sure? I mean, you're not exactly...." David makes a two-handed gesture that Joe doesn't know, which is probably just as well.   
  
"Yeah, I'm sure." Joe knows he wants this, he just never cared enough to try it again, not with a guy. Not for a guy. But David's unlike all of them, unlike everybody Joe has ever met: brilliant and fun. Utterly captivating. "I mean...you do this, right?"   
  
"Yes! I've done it." David says immediately. He looks Joe in the eye again and takes a breath. He lets his fingers trail down Joe's cheek, bristling the shadow of his beard in a way that makes Joe lean into the touch. "I'd like to -- fuck, Joe, you know I've thought about it. Thought about sucking you off. Fucking you."   
  
A rush. David's words are a current, electricity racing through Joe's body. "Bathroom cabinet, top drawer. There's lube." Not thinking about who it belongs to. "You got condoms?"   
  
David nods, and the tenseness of his posture dissipates. Bending forward, he kisses Joe again. His own taste is on David's tongue, mingling with traces of beer and something uniquely  _David_ ; Joe finds he likes it. It's dirty, thrilling, heating his body up even more. David's kisses linger, and there's a promise somewhere in there that Joe would laugh off, even mock if David had said it out loud.   
  
While he's gone, Joe takes off the rest of his clothes and lies back on the bed. He gives himself a few strokes, but he's careful, keeps his touch light. If he thinks about what he's about to do, this will be over way too soon. Best not to think, anyway.   
  
"Joe?" David says from the door, fully naked as well. Backlit, his body's glowing, and Joe likes what he sees. Everything he sees.   
  
"Yeah," Joe says, answer and reminder: Hewlett, Stop Wasting My Time.   
  
It's enough to make David's mouth quirk into a more familiar grin again, and by the time he's reached the bed and dropped the tube onto the nightstand, this is easy. Skin on skin and open mouths, a hint of teeth that makes Joe shudder and pinch David's nipples, which gets him a fantastic groan. They twist and turn, out of breath, and not from exertion alone.   
  
And finally, finally, David is fucking him. Slow, deep strokes that make Joe arch his back and grip the bedsheets tight and tighter. David licks kisses along his spine, hot and sweet, and Joe's close, so close. David begins to tremble, too, his thrusts harder and faster; he keeps pushing Joe forward until Joe can't, won't hold himself up any more. He drops onto his elbows and lifts his ass higher, the new angle sending sparks through his body, making him moan. Making him say David's name, and at that, David stiffens, one hand gripping Joe's hip, the other reaching, blindly, around to close around Joe's cock without finesse or gentleness. But one harsh pull is all it takes, and Joe closes his eyes and comes in a bright, bright burst of pleasure.   
  
Afterward, neither of them leaves the bed. Joe's too wiped for anything, but David remembers to tug the blanket up, covers them with it before inching closer again, so close that if Joe shifts back just a little, his back is against David's chest. When Joe shifts.   
  
Drifting to sleep, Joe can almost understand the words David is whispering into the nape of his neck.   
  
Almost. 


End file.
